That Was My Good Eye
by chidoria
Summary: There's been an explosion at the lab, and Greg knows why. Nick x Greg. Grissom has to get to the bottom of this, and Greg isn't making things easy. Nick isn't making things easy for Greg, and no one's making things easy for Sara. CSI, not owned by me!


Gil Grissom removed his glasses with one hand and pointed them thoughtfully at the young man sitting opposite him.

"Is that the truth?"

"Of course! I categorically deny all involvement in the matter," Greg Sanders replied darkly. Grissom narrowed his eyes. "Or, maybe I saw everything," the young CSI ventured. A wide bandage covered the excitable chemist's left eye and both men were adorned with plasters.

Grissom raised an eyebrow; he may already have known what Greg would say about that day's events, but the entomologist liked the way Greg retold things. Usually he made them sound more interesting.

"So. Tell me everything."

* * *

Nick grinned, always his most charming after meals. The plan was good. Eat, work, wander off to steal illegal explosive devise, eat, go back to work. The pharmacist handed CSI Stokes his prescription.

"Why thank you, ma'am," he beamed, shaking the small bottle. She shrugged and barked at the next person in the queue. Nick swaggered out of the drug store and into the bright parking lot, tilting his cap and replacing his sunglasses. The engine of the CSI van was running in the lot as he opened the passenger door.

"Thanks for waiting, Sara," he said, fastening his belt and glancing at the driver. The dour-faced woman shifted the van out of park and reversed out of the bay, largely ignoring road signs and pedestrians as she rolled out onto the main road.

"If someone asks why we made an unscheduled stop…" she began, sparing her passenger a scowl. Nick held his hands up and flashed an understanding smile.

"Warrick needs these eye drops," he said seriously. "Grissom's cool with that." Sara Sidle scowled, swerving to avoid the kerb.

"Whatever."

* * *

"Catherine, does this feel right to you?"

The strawberry-blonde woman looked up, her face lined with unease.

"Nothing about this place is right," she announced, pointing her flashlight at Warrick's face. The tall man squinted. "Call Brass, ask him if our vic was moved."

The pair of CSIs stood together for several minutes, hands on hips, staring at the dead man and the pool of blood he lay in. Eventually the police Captain strode into the room.

"Why is it so dark in here?" he muttered, flicking the light switch on. Both CSIs flinched and reluctantly discarded their flashlights. "Paramedics say the wife was pawing at him before they got here. Apparently she didn't notice the large hole in his head when she tried to give him CPR." Brass ignored the look on Warrick Brown's face. He guessed the CSI was picturing it.

"Did she tell anyone how she found him?" Catherine asked, circling the corpse. Brass checked his pocket notepad and nodded.

"Yeah, she told Officer Danes that he was on his front. Looked like he'd collapsed, she says." Catherine stopped circling and sighed, glancing at her watch. Brass nodded at the door. "You going upstairs?"

"No, Nick and Sara are taking the other two. It's pretty straightforward up there," she replied, taking the camera out of her pack.

Brass looked amused. "You call having two dead clowns in your bedroom straightforward?"

Warrick smiled wryly. "Hey man, you know we've seen weirder."

At that moment, the door opened. Sara stomped into the room, smiling brightly at her colleagues.

"Sorry we're late," she said, dodging Catherine's glare. "Somebody had to make a stop," she added, pointedly turning to stare at Nick, who nodded happily at the roomful of people.

"Warrick, heads up," he called, throwing the small bottle to his friend. Sara sniffed and headed up the stairs.

* * *

Greg Sanders was standing in the Substances Lab, making a tower out of empty Petri dishes. He had reached a fairly impressive two feet before running out of dishes, and had paused to find some more. A half empty cardboard box in a tall cabinet looked promising, and Greg was standing facing it when the Lab door creaked open. Not bothering to turn round, he was about to call out a multi-purpose welcome when before he could speak footsteps were right behind him.

Greg's eyes widened as a strong hand clamped over his mouth. The chemist's own hands flew up as the stronger man pinned him to the cabinet. Greg's mind instantly raced through the number of easily-obtained chemicals someone could soak into a hankerchief and knock you unconscious with, before trying to list the much larger array of fatal concoctions.

"What up, G?"

Greg fumed silently as Nick patted his face. The CSI lowered his hand and stepped back, spinning Greg round to face him with an amused expression on his face. Greg tried to appear composed, inches away from the other man. He fanned himself with a tox report.

"If you're here for your clown results, they're not ready yet."

Nick was grinning stupidly. "I made you jump."

"Congratulations," Greg said, deadpan. "If you can make me roll over and fetch will I get a biscuit?"

Nick stepped closer and Greg backed into the cabinet.

"I don't have any biscuits," he murmured, brown eyes intense. "But I got better treats."

Greg cleared his throat loudly and pushed the CSI away from him as the lab door swung open. Catherine sashayed in, waving an evidence bag at the blushing chemist, barely registering Nick's presence.

"Hey, Greg, could you take a look at these DNA samples for me? I'd put them through CODIS myself, but I needed to pick Lindsey up ten minutes ago," she breezed, dropping the bag and waving as she disappeared again. Nick had his thumbs hooked in his belt and was gazing sideways at Greg.

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, before the large printer started whirring. It promptly spat a sheet out, and Greg dived for it.

"Clowns," he muttered, narrowing his eyes at the CSI. Nick seemed uninterested, choosing instead to glance pointedly at the clock above the door.

"Hey, it's time for lunch," he said cheerfully, reaching for the door handle. "Can I get you anything?" he asked innocently.

"Sure." _You can restore the warm, safe feeling I used to have in this lab, dormant rapist!_ "I like tuna."

* * *

Grissom wondered why his tinnitus only overwhelmed him at crucial moments, not at times like this. He raised a hand politely to interrupt.

"Greg, two CSIs are in hospital. You have a very large cut on your head. I have a particularly sore hand, several band-aids and a crippled crime lab. Internal Investigations have every officer in on overtime, and Eckley's outside weeping with glee." Gil paused for breath, employing his divine patience to keep his voice calm. Greg was batting his eyelids like an innocent child. "Please try and get to the point."

Greg smiled sweetly and raised his index fingers to his temple, his left hand brushing the bandage. "Ah, it rushes back…"

* * *

Sara pored over the lunch menu, clutching her tray close to her body as she read the list over and over. Everyone in the line knew what she would eventually pick, so she was ignored. Nick piled his plate high with steak and chips, pulling a face when Catherine leaned over his tray and dropped salad on it.

Warrick was already halfway through his meal as his colleagues took their seats beside him. Grissom was eating sandwiches in his office, reading a copy of _Which? Insectarium_, and Greg was there with him, hiding, unbeknownst to his boss, from Nick. Sara chose chicken fajitas.

Nick and Warrick glanced at each other as they finished their meals, and Catherine scowled at them as they left her alone with Sara. The two men walked briskly, getting as far away from the canteen as they could before bursting into uncontrollable peals of laughter. They patted each other on the back and sighed contentedly as they both imagined Sara's reaction when the laxative kicked in.

Warrick removed the small bottle from his jacket pocket and beamed at it. Nick shook his head proudly. This had been a joint effort, so when they updated the Destroy Sara book he would add a point under both of their names.

* * *

Grissom watched his guest over the top of his magazine. Greg was tilting back in his chair, staring at the shelves on the wall with his mouth ajar. He rocked slightly as his eyes roamed the books, boxes, ornaments and assorted dead things Grissom had in his office. Billy the Singing Bass watched over them from the doorway.

Greg's eyes had fallen on a display case of beetles. He pulled a face, imagining meal times chez Grissom. His boss raised an eyebrow, lowering his magazine.

"I don't eat them, Greg," he said psychically. Greg smiled guiltily, noticing Grissom's untouched food.

"Do you eat anything?" he asked, gesturing at the lukewarm plate of fajitas. Sensing a tirade of nonsense would begin if he didn't act quickly, Grissom proffered the plate to his sidekick.

"Sara brought them in. Hungry?"

Greg devoured the offering, pleased that now he could hide without starving. Stopping short of licking the plate clean, he nodded gratefully at the older man. Greg stretched then stood up, shuffling towards the door and waving the plate about.

"Thanks for having me," he said, bowing as he left the office. Grissom returned to his magazine. He only replied after the door had shut.

"It was my pleasure."

Greg walked back to the lab in a much better mood. He heard laughter around the corner and slowed his pace, recognising Nick's voice. He inched closer. Listening in to Stokes' conversations might help him understand why the CSI behaved so strangely around him. Or at least reveal his location for the rest of the day so Greg could avoid him.

"So, thirty minutes?"

"I don't know. I put the whole bottle in." Greg recognised Warrick's voice.

"Nice… We are so hardcore."

"Yeah, I just hope that much laxative doesn't kill her."

"Yeah, not yet anyway. Hey, I'll speak to you later, pal, I gotta get something from Greg."

"You find anything on those clowns yet?"

"That's what I'm gonna find out." Nick's voice faded as he headed for the lab, and Greg couldn't move before Warrick rounded the corner. He gave the younger man a strange look.

"Hey," came the universal greeting. Greg tried not to act suspiciously. The exertion made his face burn and before he could shut himself in a different room, he had opened his mouth.

"You're going to kill Sara?" he blurted. He liked Sara. She wasn't terrifying like other girls. She actually found him amusing (at times), and didn't treat him like an underling like the rest of the CSIs did. They had a rapport, and if she died, he'd have to make a new friend. The very idea turned his stomach. Warrick was just staring at him.

"Have you been inhaling fumes?" he asked impatiently, side-stepping the chemist to stride away down the corridor. Sighing, Greg headed back to the lab. Warrick might not reveal his devious plan, but his partner in crime had a much looser tongue…

Nick was standing in the lab with Sara. He looked distinctly crestfallen, and kept glancing at the clock. He barely noticed Greg walk in and put his lab-coat on. Sara smiled at him though, and nodded at the printer.

"Hey, Greg. Get this – our dead clowns were _brothers_," she said excitedly. "Even better, they were the vic's _wife's_ brothers." She waved the sheets excitedly and told Nick she'd be in Grissom's office. As she bounced healthily out of the lab, Nick shook his head. Greg sidled up to him, watching her round the corner and disappear from sight.

"So!" the young chemist ventured. "Giving Sara an overdose of fibre didn't yield the hilarious results you'd hoped for?"

"Yeah," Nick sighed, frowning. "I don't get it. The whole bottle…" Greg rolled his eyes. It would be too easy just to ask when they were going to try and finish her off, so he didn't bother. Greg picked up the evidence bag Catherine had left for him and was going to begin processing it when a deep rumbling within him began. He rubbed his stomach, grimacing a little as the discomfort worsened.

Nick spared him a sympathetic glance.

"Canteen food is a bitch." Nick smirked as he pictured Sara hovering over a toilet. Greg's face was very white. "Did you eat salad? Salad makes me ill," Nick offered, playing a row of test tubes with a swab stick. Greg shook his head as another rumble made him groan.

"Agh… no, I ate Grissom's fajitas."

Nick's swab stick froze in mid air, and he watched in silence as Greg groaned again and charged out of the lab. As realisation dawned, he paged Warrick. He'd check Greg hadn't died later; first, a new Sara-punishment must be devised.

Several hours later, and several pounds lighter, Greg was able to sit in his car without staining the upholstery. He pulled into his driveway and walked straight through his house to the shower. He scrubbed every inch of his flesh before reluctantly turning the hot water off to dry himself. He pulled a clean t-shirt on, not bothering to dry his hair. He just wanted to sit and sulk somewhere.

Poking around in the fridge, he took a beer and dropped onto the sofa in front of the television, not turning it on. Fumbling for the remote control for his stereo underneath the cushions, he turned the volume up on _A-Ha:_ _The_ _Singles_ and closed his eyes.

He slept for an hour, only waking as someone sat beside him on the sofa and began to gently massage his shoulders. Greg arched his back and the warm hands dropped to his ribs, rubbing up and down. He let himself float away as Nick kissed his neck, obediently turning his head to let their lips meet.

Greg woke with a start, spilling his beer on the sofa. He managed to omit a traumatised breath.

"Distressing."

* * *

Greg skipped this incident from his Grissom-edited account, deciding instead to focus on the trauma of being poisoned by work colleagues. Grissom felt a stab of guilt under the main emotion of annoyance. If Grissom hadn't given Greg the evil fajitas, then he would have been indisposed instead. But if Nick and Warrick hadn't tried to poison Sara, nobody would have suffered. Being Nick and Warrick's fault was much better than being his fault, so Grissom focused his annoyance on them.

"Should I continue?" Greg asked sweetly, sensing his supervisor wasn't paying him adequate attention. Grissom had his elbows on his desk, and was resting his bearded chin on intertwined fingers.

"Greg, when IA question you, this cannot be what you say."

"I can't tell them the truth?"

"You have to tell the truth, Greg," the bespectacled man said, before giving his next sentence the sardonic lilt the supervisor used when he was being clever. "Just leave out the inane details."

"My pain is inane?"

"No, but telling me how long you spent in the toilet is." Gil replied, dropping his arms on the table. "Perhaps you could fast forward to the explosion?"

Greg sniffed indignantly.

"Sure, the explosion. I was processing clown wigs when Warrick ran past the lab…"

* * *

Warrick sauntered past the lab windows, cell phone pressed to his face. Greg glowered at him as he passed, wondering how he could possibly get even. The CSI didn't seem to feel any guilt whatsoever that his evil plan to poison Sara had backfired so spectacularly yesterday. Telling Grissom what they'd done had been as good as pointless; the supervisor had a lot on his plate at the moment, and nobody could prove that Greg had been poisoned anyway.

Grissom's apparent disinterest had hurt Greg more than the laxative had, and now the chemist felt too sorry for himself to pursue an official punishment anyway.

Sighing deeply, Greg put his hand inside his lab coat pocket, retrieving a small card. He hid behind the AFIS computer to read it again.

_I'll apologise in person. Meet me in the car park at 2pm – Nick_

Greg wasn't going to go. He wasn't completely stupid; the car park wasn't overlooked by any other buildings, and was usually pretty quiet in the afternoon. Far too much scope for another attack. Nick could apologise anywhere; the car park was for rape or GBH.

The door swung open and Greg stuffed the card back into his lab coat. Catherine walked in, a kind expression making a rare trip to her face.

"Hey, Greg. You look a lot better today." He didn't reply. "Well, I won't be eating from the canteen again anytime soon." This was as far as Ms Willow's sympathies were going to extend and Greg knew it, so he gave her a feeble smile.

"Me neither." She smiled briskly and patted his shoulder. Her other hand held two DNA swabs, and she waved them at him. She squinted at the labels. "More clown stuff?"

"Yeah, we got a new suspect. If you could…" Catherine broke off, interrupted by a loud scream. "What the hell was that?" Greg whitened.

"They killed Sara!" he blurted stupidly. Catherine ignored him and dropped the swabs on the work surface, pacing to the lab door and peering along the corridor.

"Do you have a gun?" she asked, removing her own from its holster without taking her eyes off the corridor. Greg sat with his mouth open.

"No!" he eventually managed. He noticed the time on the clock and groaned. He could be safe and warm in Nick's arms right now instead of trapped in his own lab with Catherine and a screaming woman on the loose. Catherine ignored his whimpering and signalled for him to hide.

Greg sulkily dropped off his seat and into a cross-legged heap on the floor. Somewhere in the department, the woman screamed again. This time it was closer, and more obviously angry.

Before either of them could move, Grissom had appeared at the door. He stared from Catherine and her gun to Greg sitting on the lab floor and back, an expression of pure confusion parked on his gentle face. Catherine pulled the door open, gun ready.

"What's going on?" she demanded, still not blinking. Grissom raised an eyebrow and stepped into the lab.

"Sara and Brass were interviewing a suspect, the woman took offence to something our Captain said… what are you doing?" he finally asked, exasperated. He stepped forward and held a hand out to Greg. The young man stared at it for a moment before his supervisor pulled him to his feet. Catherine stuffed her gun away, annoyed.

"I thought they'd got to Sara," Greg muttered as Catherine breezed out of the lab door. Grissom watched her go and turned back to the analyst.

"I think we need to talk about this," he said, opening the door and holding it. "We'll go to my office." Greg felt like a schoolboy.

"Am I in trouble?"

"Don't sass me," Grissom said, face stern. Greg suddenly felt furious, and his emotions got the better of him as they passed the interrogation rooms.

"This is ridiculous! I told you that Warrick and Nick were trying to kill Sara, and _I_ got poisoned. Catherine whips her gun out and _I_ get in trouble. It's not fair!"

Grissom stopped walking and faced him.

"Greg, you're not in trouble."

There was a moment of charged silence between the men before the explosion. As the glass of the interview rooms along the corridors blew out, Greg caught a thick shard of glass in the head. Grissom pulled him to the floor, covering him as the lethal shower ended. Greg whimpered as blood streamed down his face, blinding him in one eye. The explosion echoed in his ears as the sprinklers above them burst into action.

Smoke began to creep out of the rooms, and the cloakroom door burst open. Catherine rushed out, dropping to her knees beside them, staring wide-eyed at the destruction in the corridor and then at the blood oozing from Greg's head as he lay sheltered in Grissom's lap.

Sirens blared as she helped him carry the wounded chemist out of the building, and everything became a blur as Greg shut his good eye.

* * *

Grissom took his glasses off and cleaned them thoughtfully. Replacing them on the bridge of his nose, he gave Greg a stern look.

"You think Nick and Warrick blew the lab up because they were trying to kill Sara?" Greg had thought that was exactly what had happened; right up until Grissom had said the words himself. It just sounded absurd when Grissom said it.


End file.
